


it's green. it's still green.

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Floof, M/M, shameless floof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 15:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6961948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Eric's defense, the first time it happens, it's not his fault.</p><p>The lighting in the room is too bright, hurts his eyes. It makes him feel more like he's being interrogated than interviewed by Spurs TV. But he promised the boss he'd take one of the team, so he sits, quietly drumming his fingers onto his thigh.</p><p>Or, Dele interviews Eric, Eric gets his revenge and they spend a lot of time on camera <i>not </i>saying things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's green. it's still green.

**Author's Note:**

> [clutches Arsenal jersey and pin and scarf and hat to chest] only god can judge me. 
> 
> anything in quotes and italics is a real, true thing these lovestruck fools said to one another.

In Eric's defense, the first time it happens, it's not his fault.

The lighting in the room is too bright, hurts his eyes. It makes him feel more like he's being interrogated than interviewed by Spurs TV. But he promised the boss he'd take one of the team, so he sits, quietly drumming his fingers onto his thigh.

He's hoping the interviewer gets here soon, because he needs a distraction. He presses his palms flat against his thigh to tamp down on the urge to check his phone. Because he already did, three minutes ago, and he didn't have new texts then. It's not like it's a big deal, just a "wanna get burgers after," but Dele's usually better about at least saying no. Eric scans his brain for their last interaction, tries to remember if he did or said anything that might’ve…

God, he really hopes the interviewer gets here soon.

The door opens and closes softly behind him. He's turning around when the person moves before him.

Somewhere between his head and his mouth, the synapses misfire. So what begins as wonderment comes out as, “What the fuck?”

Dele laughs and it seems to echo in the room. Or maybe just in Eric's head, he's never really sure.

There's a strange swooping in his gut. Eric wonders if he has food poisoning, frowns immediately.

"Morning, Hollywood,” Dele gives by way of greeting, grinning toothily. Eric turns his frown at him. He feels wholly out of his element suddenly, the lights glaring down at him, hot and heavy, the cameras ready to catch every movement of his face.

"Isn't he meant to be the one interviewing me?" he asks, pointing to the guy behind Dele.

"They figured you needed a bit of moral support?"

"And they went with you instead?"

" _You not happy to see me, Eric?"_ Dele taunts. Eric sends him a look and Dele doesn't blink away, watches him with a smile that's soft around the edges.

"Never."

Dele squints and Eric's the one to look off this time.

" _Alright, Delboy,"_ he bites out.

The interview goes...well, it goes. Dele spends half his time taunting him about his mistakes and the other half talking over him, needling him until Eric's ready to give up talking altogether. It's comfortingly familiar, almost like training. It gets easier to answer the questions after a while.

At least until Dele asks him if he's got anything he wants to say to him, _off-camera_. He does the eyebrow wiggle when he says it, and Eric feels his cheeks go hot instantly, shifting awkwardly in his chair.

He knows, he _knows_ Dele's only doing it to get a rise out of him, for banter. He doesn't dare follow the thought, but he gets a brief flash of it: saying the things he carries aloud.

_"So, I think the main question on everyone's mind is, how do you think I’ve been at interviewing today, as an interviewer?"_

Eric tries to glare but the smile pushes insistently at his cheeks.

 _"I can't say on camera_ " he mutters, before they look at one another and burst into laughter.

"Bastard," he grumbles at Dele after. Dele giggles, clearly still proud of himself. "A right bastard. could've warned me."

Dele shakes his head.

"Then you would've prepared for it. You're shit at relaxing, Dierwolf. You gotta be surprised into it."

Eric stares down into his backpack, fiddles with the zipper. He knows this. He just didn't Dele did, hadn't realized how easy of a read he was.

"So, burgers?"

"You're buying," Eric demands, swings his bag over his shoulder.

"Fame's getting to your head, mate," Dele retorts.

“Burgers” devolves into catching up on Game of Thrones at Eric’s apartment. He grabs blankets from the linen closet, knows it’s only a matter of time before Dele whines about being cold.

He’s settled in against his side of the two-seater, legs tucked up under him. Eric drops the blankets beside him, throws the packets of gummy fruit snack at Dele before sitting on the other end. He grins, rips into one immediately even though they just ate.

On-screen, Sansa throws her arms around Jon, who clings to her tightly. Eric has to blink against the sudden jab of emotion, the way it wells up in his eyes.

He can feel Dele staring at him.

“What?”

“What’re you getting so maudlin for?”

“Huh?”

“You keep sighing like some Jane Austen character.”

Eric hadn’t even realized.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, it’s not...What’s up, Diet?” The nickname always makes him feel warm all along his limbs.

“They should win, y’know?”

“Who?” Dele asks, curious, popping a red gummy into his mouth. He chews noisily. It should probably be more disgusting, but it’s just Dele.

“What’d ya mean, who? Arsenal,” he snarks back.

Dele throws a yellow candy at him and Eric leans in, mouth open to catch it.

“The Starks. You know they won’t, cause the Lannisters have the power, and the Tyrells have the money. And Dany’s got fucking dragons, but the Starks have got like…”

He trails off, feels acutely silly.

“Honor.”

Dele pops another candy in.

“Who says they won’t win?”

He’s so ridiculously cocksure that Eric nearly begins to list the reasons. He stops himself.

“Come off it.”

“No, I mean so they don’t win the kingdom, but you’ve seen the mess it’s in. Bit of a shit prize. Maybe winning’s just getting back home for them. What’s the uhh... _the wolves will come again._ Maybe that’s their prize.”

He says it so simply, the way he does when he believes in something. Like it’s settled inside of him. Eric feels suddenly, unbearably grateful that he’s the one here. That he gets to see this bit of Dele he keeps tucked away.

“Yeah, Delboy, maybe so.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he asks.

“Does this make Leicester the Martells?”

Eric thinks for a moment before smirking.

“White walkers,” he says decisively. Dele cackles and Eric smothers his smile in the neck of his sweatshirt.

He rests his hand against the pile of blankets when he turns back to the tv. Dele reaches for one to cover his legs and their fingers brush. It’s the last thing he remembers before they fall asleep.

 

-

 

He plans his revenge the day after, sends an email to John from Spurs TV to set it up. But after the original interview’s released, he seriously begins to question his life choices. He's seen his face looking at Dele in vivid HQ, doesn't think anyone should be subject to that ever again,  least of all himself. 

The morning of opens with gloom. There's a lingering ache in his thigh and the sky outside is overcast, the world's laziest drizzle endlessly falling. It makes him miss Portugal acutely. John asks him to stop on his way out.

Dele rushes past him, elbows him without stopping until he’s just at the entrance. Then he turns back to grin, taunting but warm. Eric’s mouth moves, smiles back without thinking about it.

He's still staring dumbly at the spot where he was when John taps his arm politely. It takes him a few seconds to turn his head, which. He resolutely ignores _that_ before arching an eyebrow.

“Do you need help coming up with questions, lad?” He has kind eyes and a booming laugh, so Eric trusts him.

“Nah, I’ve been working on some stuff,” he says noncommittally. “Although,” he begins, scrambling for an excuse. He remembers the bashful blushing and awkward squirming, thinks it’s for the best he come up with a reason quick. 

"Not getting cold feet, are you there, Dier?"

“No, it’s just, maybe it’d be better if he got his own interview.”

“Don’t get stage fright on me now, boy-o. The video was a hit, everyone loved the spitfire spark between you boys. Listen, get some sleep, we’ll email you some questions. Don’t worry about a thing, just be yourself.”

He's already moving away, like he can sense Eric's reluctance.

"See you then, lad!"

Eric runs a hand through his hair, purses his lips to stifle the groan. He sprints out to fall in line with the boys, doing laps around the pitch. Pochettino doesn't nod or smile, but the look he sends his way isn't one of his laser-sharp glares, so he thinks he's alright. Dele's up ahead, laughing at Danny. They turn around an edge and he looks back, looking for something. His eyes land on Eric and he slows down a little. Eric hustles forward, meets him halfway.

"What'd John want?"

"My autograph. England's next great, y'know."

"Good thing he got in on the ground floor, before you were famous."

Eric swats at his arm and Dele bounces just in time to avoid it, giggling smugly at his own joke.

He misses Portugal a little less.

By the end of practice, the ache in his thigh has morphed into something more familiar, a muscle pushing beyond its capacity. He's comforted by it, takes it for a part of what they're trying to build together here. During the stretches, Dele wraps his fingers around his ankle and pushes his leg into his chest, eyes on Eric's the entire time.

It's slightly disconcerting, like he seems to know that Eric won't say uncle even when he's at the point of pain. He's helpless to look away, grits his teeth together and hopes Dele thinks it's just from the stretch.

Afterward, they're sitting next to one another, Dele's knee resting just against his. He smells like the body wash he keeps in his locker, which is different from the one he has at home. Eric knows this.

Dele glances over at him, like he's waiting for someone to say something. Eric waits. Dele waits. Eric waits. Keeps waiting even as Dele rises, holds out his hand to help him up instead.

 

-

 

It takes Eric exactly 34 seconds to regret not backing out.

He walks in and Dele blinks up, a brief flash of surprise, gone near instantly when recognizes him.

 _“Oh here we go,”_ the words are, but his face is bright and sunny as he laughs over at Eric. He’s hopelessly fond of this laugh, the one for when a kid wearing his kit demands an autograph, or a dog lavishly laps at his hand. Slow, like elation settling inside of him, resting between his ribs. As if on cue, the swooping returns.

 

Thankfully, it’s not a long list of questions, so he speeds through it as quickly as possible, hoping not to bungle it.

 

He’s so close to the end that he gets complacent, leans back in his chair and asks about Dele’s relationship status.

 

It was on the list of questions they’d sent over, is Eric’s justification. Or a very similar question about Dele’s hobbies, but who’s to split hairs here. The people want to know, he’s sure.

 

Dele shakes his head, leans forward a little. His eyes don’t move from Eric’s face while he answers.

 

“ _Single and ready to mingle_.”

Eric shoves a chuckle out of his throat at that.

Dele glances away before looking back at Eric as he adds,

" _I don’t think you can look for love. I think it finds you.”_

Eric has the strangest sensation as he feels something bubbling up inside him: a laugh falling out of his mouth, eyes welling up again as he moves to rub them. As though hearing his own beliefs spoken aloud suddenly makes them feel real, makes them true. Clearly, his body has no clue as how to process that.

Not for the first time, he curses how painfully pale he is, knows his embarrassed blush is spilling everywhere, red all along his cheeks and throat.

 _“It’s getting emotional,”_ he remarks, wiping whatever’s happening  beneath his eyelids away. Dele’s still leaning in, elbows on his knees as he steadily gazes on at him. Eric’s not sure what he’s challenging him to, only that he’s failing to rise to it.   

Eric can’t speak further so he kicks at Dele’s ankle. Dele’s eyes don’t move from his face until Eric turns away, doesn’t want the naked heart of himself exposed like this.

When he turns back, Dele’s finally leaning back in his seat, looking away.

 

-

 

The England call-up comes on a Wednesday morning while Dele’s burning toast. Specifically, Eric’s slices of toast. Somehow, he managed to get his own done just fine, which Eric promises to give him shit for later.

Now, he’s staring at the text from his manager. A small frizzle of excitement goes through him. Eric sends him a polite thank-you text before checking the internet. It takes less than five seconds for him to find what he’s looking for. He finds his name immediately on the list and grins like a loon. The sight of “Dele Alli” in print and excitement gets upgraded to delight.

 “How does a person fuck up toast?” he demands to know, staring at Dele across the island in his kitchen.

“It’s your toaster, man, don’t ask me. My toaster works just fine.”

“You don’t have a toaster,” he reminds helpfully. He steals the other slice of toast and slathers jam all over it. Dele swats at him, but it’s already halfway to Eric’s mouth.

“Check your phone, mate,” Eric mumbles, mouth mostly full.

“Why?” Dele demands.

Eric silently takes another bite. It’s rude to stare but the rules have never applied to Dele. Besides, he wants to see the exact moment when it happens.

Dele squints suspiciously before grabbing his picture.

“Is this like the plimsolls pic again, because I’m still not embarrassed by them. It was a look ba--” He trails off as he seems to find it.

He stares at the screen, a corner of his mouth quirking up. He keeps scrolling, lower, before he looks up, beaming. His whole face is crinkled with joy.

“Yeah Diet!” he exclaims, pumping a fist stupidly in the air.

"Yeah, Delboy," Eric echoes, a little breathlessly. They keep grinning at each other before Eric leans across to take the plate, puts it in the sink.

 His hand's on the knob when Dele's body slams into him from behind. Eric jolts forward a little, but Dele's arms criss-cross over his chest, the warmth of him all along his back. His chin rests on his shoulder.

He wants to close his eyes and hold on, for as long as Dele will let him. He wants a lot of things he shouldn't, so he pats the back of Dele's hand instead. Dele releases him, his soft huff of breath tickling the back of Eric's neck.

"Practice, mate, or Poch won't even let us go to Berlin." His voice sounds strangely distant, like he's hearing himself in a voice recording. Like someone else is helping him get his footing back.

"Yeah yeah," Dele dismisses, grabbing his backpack. "I'm ready for lunch."

"How are you not 900 pounds already?" Eric gripes.

"I burn calories from having to carry you around all the time."

"More likely from that ego of yours," Eric retorts, bumps him lightly. They stay close enough that their elbows brush the whole way to the car.

 

-

 

Berlin's colder and gloomier than he expects anywhere outside of England to be. The flight's not long, but he's exhausted by the time they get to the hotel at 1 am. Dele's not faring much better, sagging against his side the plane ride over. Now he's sort of stumbling behind, nearly trips over his own rolling suitcase. Eric grabs him by the elbow, keeps him steady.

Eric's assigned to Room 215. They each get their own, so he lightly squeezes Dele's arm in farewell. Only he doesn't seem to get it, just drags his bag with him into Eric's room. It falls with a soft thud onto the floor when Dele releases it, stripping off his sweatshirt and climbing onto the bed.

"This isn't your room,' Eric reminds, toes off his shoes on the other side of the bed.

"Too far," he mumbles sleepily. It's really not, only three doors down. But Eric watches him steal the second second pillow, hugging it to his chest, tucked under his chin. Sleeping Dele always makes him ache, too soft and vulnerable for what he’s already had to endure.   

In the morning, it will cost him something to pretend this isn't too close, too much ( _not nearly enough_ ).

But for now, he grabs Dele's sweatshirt and balls it up to use as a makeshift pillow. Falls asleep feeling surrounded by him.

 

-

 

He scores a goal for England, and it's bloody brilliant. Everyone goes mad, the English fans in the crowd on their feet, stomping and cheering and filling up the whole of his world his joyful noise. Dele sticks his face in his neck and Eric moves an arm around his waist, can't make himself let go just yet.

His shirt's soaked through by the time of the post-match interview and he's almost shivering now, sweat and exhaustion dragging at him. They're asking about his goal and he tries to remember, has to push past the memory of Dele whispering, "Fuck yeah, Diet," against his throat.

He's mid-thought when the interviewer interrupts to ask about his Spurs teammate. For a wild second, Eric tries to remember if he said any of what he'd been thinking out loud, prays he hasn't. But Harry's voice sounds out and he turns, feels Dele before his hand smacks at the back of his neck.

"Rock star," Dele hisses under his breath, low and close enough that only Eric can hear it. He's sure it's just from the cameras or the influx of bodies, but his skin goes hot, tight under the close fit of the kit. It licks up the sides of his throat, makes him duck his head down to hide his face. He can feel the red spilling everywhere.

That night, he doesn't think anything of it when Dele comes with him back to his room. His suitcase is still there,  stacked on the other side of the bed. Eric's started to think of it as his side, when he lets himself think of it at all.

Dele tumbles onto the bedspread, arms behind his head. He wants to ask about earlier, or the times before. the way Dele keeps goading him in interviews, pushing him until he flubs up or embarrasses himself. It's starting to feel like an intent to it, a meaning, but it's like running to the finish line in a nightmare. The closer he gets, the further it seems to escape him. Dangling just beyond where he can reach.

He sits beside him, splits open a bag of crisps and leaves it between them.

Dele's phone buzzes and he makes a tired little noise.

"Harry and Danny want drinks," he announces

Eric tilts his head from where it's resting on the pillow. From this angle, Dele looks like a different Dele. A Dele in another world that Eric doesn't know. Other world Dele looks down at him with infinite patience, like he's slowing down, waiting for him to get there. Dele in every world makes his heart race when the whole of his attention is focused on him.

"I’m good here,” Eric says, focusing his gaze on his chin.

“Yeah, alright.”

He closes his eyes, a quick nap before they order room service. The blankets shift and his toes are less cold than they were a second ago.

He’s not sure if he imagines the, “Me too,” or if it’s real.

 

-

 

The game against Manchester United feels nothing less than a miracle.

For 69 minutes, Eric thinks it’s going to be a draw. It’s Manchester, and whatever’s happening now, he’s got enough pure football in him to admire the legacy of 20 league titles.

He’s nearly resigned to a single point when Pochettino screams at them across the pitch. They all have plenty of practice in learning to brush it off, but he sees Dele across the pitch. He’s got grass stains all across his shirt and a bit of a cut on his right knee, a slow trickle of blood running down his leg. His face, though. His face is screwed up in fierce determination, eyes glinting gunmetal.

This morning, Eric had to drive back home because he forgot his phone charger. Twice this week, he’s forgotten to eat breakfast, only remembered because Dele had whined about his own.

But Eric remembers two things with startling accuracy:

One, Dele hanging back at the training ground long after the rest of the team had cleared out. He’d been suspiciously mum about what he’d been doing after, begged off Eric’s offers to drive home. It’s not like he wanted to pry, just to make sure that Dele didn’t hurt himself or...whatever.

Late on a Tuesday night, there was Dele, practicing his free kicks on the empty grounds. The sun at half-mast, everything illuminated by the gauzy light of dusk. His lanky frame silhouetted in the soft glow.

Eric had felt something too tender climb its way up his throat. He thinks, whatever else happens, even if it’s nothing, this will have made it worth it. _He_ will have been worth it.

Two, tomorrow is Dele’s birthday.

When the ball slips from Anthony Martial’s foot, Eric nicks it away before the Frenchman can so much as blink. His lungs burn and his calves protest as he dashes up the side, but he doesn’t give a shit. Someone would have to break his legs before he stopped.

Harry calls his name, but he doesn’t even see the defenders swarm around him. All he sees is Dele, standing just a bit away, eyes locked on Eric’s.

He mouths something, Eric’s not sure what, but he knows as soon as the ball leaves his foot that it will find its way right to Dele’s.

White Hart Lane explodes when Dele bangs the ball home. The din of their celebrations makes him nearly vibrate with it. He’s clutching at Dele’s jersey when they find their way to each other in the middle of the team.

“Delboy! Fucking brilliant,” he hisses, suddenly desperate for Dele to know, to understand. He smiles, all white teeth and a little shy, before pressing his face into Eric’s jersey.

“Yeah, Diet. Yeah.”

 

-

 

This time it’s Paul from Spurs TV who politely asks them both to stay behind. Eric very nearly begs off, but Dele’s buzzing with excitement. It’s impossible to leave his side when he’s like this, radiating warmth and happiness.

He’s more animated than usual, giggling and giddy, keeps bouncing on the balls of his feet between answers. Eric tries to keep his head clear long enough to answer the questions as they ought to be, feeling strangely like the designated driver here.

Paul mentions Dele deserving all the praise and Eric thinks, “Yes” instinctively. Dele leans into his space, face suddenly appearing at the corner of Eric’s vision. He’s smiling, softer than when they normally taunt each other. Like he’s...asking.

 _What_ ? Eric thinks. _Tell me._   _Anything._ Anything.

Eric opens his mouth and the first thing, the easiest thing, spills out: banter. He teases him about staying late after training to practice. Dele’s face disappears from his peripheral, which is probably for the best he thinks. He doesn’t want to see the repercussions of his own failures.

When Paul asks Eric about Dele’s birthday and he interrupts to point out that he hasn’t gotten him a present yet, his voice is too small.

“It’s not your birthday yet,” Eric tries, but the tension’s already muscling its way between them.

Dele doesn’t look at him when they head off to the shower. He wants to call after him, tell him it was only bantz, that’s what they do but, nothing about this makes sense to him. Dele’s shoulders are hunched as he strips off his dirty kit.

Eric doesn’t even bother showering, just throws his shit into his bag and leaves without a word. Dele will come to him when he’s ready, he thinks.

Hopes.

 

-

 

His bed, not unlike his life, is a fucking mess the following night.

He texted Dele precisely at midnight, said some seriously sappy bare-your-soul shit that’s reserved for birthdays and funerals. In all fairness, he hadn’t expected a reply.

But after two whole hours of sleep, the rest of the night wasted tossing and turning, he’d woken to,

_Thanks, Diet. Me too._

He’s glad smartphones haven’t evolved to yet reflect the number of times a single text has been read. He prefers embarrassing himself manually.

Like now, for example, when he’s trying to put together something to wear. His brain’s abandoned him, the only thing left in it is Dele’s giggling voice telling the world that he’s got the worst fashion. He tries to choose between two sweaters, because he always gets cold, before he remembers the second part. Something about everything being too big. He spies a fitted button-up, a dark shade of navy.

Eric sighs even while he pulls it on. He’s gonna freeze to death for no reason.

Dele’s voice is replaced by Jaime Lannister’s.

“The thing we do fo--”

Eric makes a startled noise before slamming the brakes on that train of thought.

 

-

 

Harry’s the first to comment on it.

“Well, well, look who dressed up for the occasion.”

“Look who didn’t,” he snarks back. Harry’s wearing some strange t-shirt that he’s sure is objectively fashionable. But Eric would rather wear a Tesco bag than that.

He’s already scanning the room when Harry hands him a beer and mutters, “He’s with Sonny and Danny, dance floor,” into the mouth of his beer.

“I didn’t ask,” Eric points out.

“You didn’t need to,” Harry replies serenely, shoving at his arm.

Eric waits five full minutes before going over.

“So, your car, how much gas does it use?”

“Why?” Harry’s eyebrows arch.

 “Just wondering.”

“Are you trying to make small talk?”

Eric nods curtly, takes a sip of his beer. He shouldn’t go over completely sober.

“A lot.”

"Huh?”

“Ballpark figure for how much gas my car uses: a lot.”

“Hmm.”

“Are we done yet?”

“No.”

He finishes the beer, buys one for himself and two for Harry as a thanks. He pats his shoulder brusquely.

Sonny’s sitting on the arm of some VIP section when Eric finds him. Dele is not.

Dele’s in the middle of the packed dance floor. His arms are thrashing in the air, fists pumping like he’s on one of those American reality shows, and he’s mostly bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s absolutely awful.

“Should we stop him?” Eric asks Sonny as Dele bumps into Lamela.

“It’s his birthday,” Sonny reminds.

“For his sake.”

“Nah. But you can go--”

Eric never hears the end of that sentence because Dele spots him, screeches his name loud enough to be heard over the face.

“Come dance, Diet!”

Dele flings his arms around his shoulders as soon as Eric gets there. He smells like a bouquet of whiskey, beer and something unexpectedly sweet, citrusy.

"You’re pissed, buddy,” he comments, Dele’s nose rubbing against the side of his neck.

“It’s my birthday!” he exclaims excitedly, leaning back to sloppily grin up at him.

“Yeah, Delboy, happy birthday.” He pats his back softly. Dele nods, mostly jerks his head forward, forehead landing against his shoulder. Eric’s not sure what to do with that, so he just strokes a hand along his spine. He feels his mouth moving against his shirt, but he can’t hear it. It would be unkind to press his luck here, but Eric’s starting to feel like his is running out.

“Say cheese, lads!” Danny shouts. _Definitely_ running out.

Dele nearly gives himself whiplash turning. Eric’s pretty sure he looks equally shocked and horrified, like a deer being dropped in the middle of Piccadilly Square.

“Wait, let’s do video,” Sonny suggests, and Danny nods enthusiastically.

“Alright, we’re here for Dele’s birthday celebration. We’ve got the birthday boy himself here, Delboy! And his mate, Eric, who looks surprised to have even been invited.”

He gives them the finger, which seems to make Dele laugh.

“Anything you wanna say to Dele, Eric? Any words you want recorded for eternity?”

“I already sent him a birthday text,” Eric grumbles petulantly.

“A birthday _text_?” Lamela demands. Eric didn’t even realize he was listening, but he’s stopped his gyrations for the sake of conversation.

“Yeah,” Eric tries nonchalantly.

“You send a text to a coworker, or the neighbor who feeds your dog when you’re on vacation. For best friends, husbands and wives, you say it in person,” Lamela chastises. There is no small amount of judgment in the way he’s watching him.

“I mean, I also meant to,” Eric starts, but Danny’s having none of it.

“Yeah, Eric, treat your wife better.” He snickers into his glass.

“That’s right, Eric, you really ought to appreciate your wife more,” Sonny joins in.

“Come on, Eric, I taught you to be better to your wife better than that,” Harry chimes.

“You’re not even married!”

“Good as.” Harry shrugs.

“Go on, Eric, tell us how you feel about your wife,” Sonny teases, camera moving closer to Eric’s face.

“Yeah, Eric, tell us how much you love your wife,” Lamela seconds.

“Tell them I’m your wife, Eric.”

Eric feels a sudden pounding in his chest that has nothing to do with the bass pulsing, a fierce buzzing filling his head. The entirety of his existence narrows down as he turns his head toward Dele, who’s just spoken.

“What?” He asks dumbly. His mouth’s filled with cotton balls and he couldn’t get his hands to do a single thing if he wanted.

“Tell them I’m your wife,” Dele prompts, voice too quiet for how drunk he is. His eyes are glossy and he’s swaying slightly. Eric dimly notices his arm is still around Dele’s waist.

 He gapes like a hooked fish, before slamming his lips together.

“Go on,” Dele whispers, fingers tightening in his shirt.

He’s wearing the same look as other world Dele. Only here, in the low lighting, Eric finally sees it: it’s also the one from the birthday interview, and the ones where they interviewed one another. It’s the same look as all of them.

Asking for Eric to give voice to the things he’s kept neatly, determinedly hidden away.

He opens his mouth, hopes the right words will make it there. Feels bolder as the edge of Dele’s nails bite through the fabric.

Dele promptly vomits on his shoes.

 

-

 

The first thing he thinks the next morning is, _I hope someone took off my shoes_. The fuzzy gauzy feeling has migrated to his head and he rolls to bury his face in his pillow. Only mid-turn, he bumps into something warm and solid and the something touches the skin of his hip.

That wakes him up immediately.

 Dele’s eyes are closed but he’s smiling as he strokes a thumb over the curve of his hipbone.

“Diet,” he whispers, like he knows him by feel alone.

“Whose bed are we win?” Eric asks, trying to give the erratic beat of his heart time to slow down.

“Harry’s, I think.”

“You were drunker than I was.”

“Threw it all up, mate. Harry made me French toast when we got home.”

Eric laughs despite himself, helplessly fond. 

“Only you would still be hungry after all that.”

Eric stares at the sweep of his lashes against his cheek, wants very much to touch them. Dele’s whole hand is cupped over his hip now, their legs not rubbing but resting against one another from knee to ankle. He thinks he might be allowed.

Carefully, he touches two fingers to just beneath his eyes, where the hint of dark circles have taken up residence.

“Do you remember?”

  _I remember everything about you_ , Eric thinks. He doesn’t say that. Partly because it’s terribly sappy, and partly because it’s blatantly untrue. But he remembers more about Dele than he does himself sometimes, so he supposes that’s something.

“I remember you being my wife.”

Dele chuckles, soft and sleepy, and Eric lets his fingers slide down to rest just on his mouth.

“Are you going to kiss me now?”

“What, like Sleeping Beauty?” Eric teases. “You don’t open your eyes until I kiss you?”

“ _Just_ like Sleeping Beauty,” Dele confirms.

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Twice.”

“Do you…” Eric trails off. There’s so much to ask that his mind can’t settle on any of them. But he wants to be sure that Dele’s here with him, as deep as Eric.

Dele blinks open even before the kiss. He cups Eric’s cheek in his hand and tilts his head slightly, forcing him to meet his glance. They’re the kindest eyes Eric’s ever seen, which makes them the most beautiful.

“I found you, Diet.”

Eric’s heart catches, stumbles, at the words. It’s too big, he can’t possibly contain it or be worthy of it. But somehow, he knows it’s okay because if Dele found him, it's only because he found Dele too. Which means they’ll both carry it.

He’s the one to lean in, to find Dele’s mouth with his own. His fingertips resting lightly on the side of his neck, feeling his pulse thrum under his touch, speed up as he deepens the kiss.

 

-

 

The last time is absolutely Eric’s fault. He has no excuse for it, except that he hasn’t seen Dele all morning and he wants to.

And somehow, this is something he’s allowed to want.

For a minute, Eric just watches him, the little furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration. Eventually, it’s too much and he wants his attention again.

He pulls out his phone and starts recording, wandering into frame. Dele blinks up and his face lights up, bright from within. Incandescent.

“ _What’re you doing?”_ He demands but he’s laughing the whole time, questions forgotten as he watches Eric.

“Tell them I’m your boyfriend, Delboy,” he orders. He flicks him off with a slightly smug but affectionate grin that is Eric's favorite.

(Later, in Eric's bed, Dele's thin arms looped around his neck and mouth trailing down his neck, Dele will tell him.)

**Author's Note:**

> huge thank you to [distefanos](http://archiveofourown.org/users/distefanos), without whom the single most important Dele x Eric line, "Tell them I'm your wife, Eric," would've never come into being. ♡
> 
> and to [kaixo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo), who not only prodded me until I made something of myself, but also helped me do it. you're a better source than marca, sport and daily mail combined, buddy. 
> 
> thank you for reading! comments are lovingly hoarded in the treasure trove of my heart. 
> 
> [tumblr](ourseparatedcities.tumblr.com), for yelling.


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